


Psycho Rangers: Defenders of Mirinoi

by MajorSteed



Category: Power Rangers
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Mirinoi, Science Fiction, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-28 14:45:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12608968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorSteed/pseuds/MajorSteed
Summary: The Psycho Rangers have returned once again, but find themselves in very different circumstances. Their ancient enemies are gone, and they're light-years from Earth, called upon to protect a new world from a legion of darkness. Now, they are faced with an incredible choice: continue down the path of evil and destruction, or forge a new destiny as the Defenders of Mirinoi. Current episode: "Psychos Gone Ranger."





	1. Psychos Gone Ranger, Act 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a new, unlikely band of heroes is formed.

**EPISODE ONE, ACT ONE**

 

Somewhere deep in the forest, where nobody dared to tread, there stood an old, and lonely manor house. It had been transported from its ancient grounds, brick by brick and timber by timber, by a revered old patriarch who had lived in the earliest days of the interstellar colonies. Its black and crimson edifice loomed like a monstrous death’s-head above the treetops. The grounds were wreathed in perpetual mist, which hid the manor’s bloodthirsty guardians, as well as the innumerable traps and pitfalls in the earth, awaiting the bold and the lost who dared advance upon it. Within this dank and uninviting place, a party was underway, and its wicked master was in the middle of addressing his guests.

          “Terra Venture! Shining capital of Mirinoi, built upon the remains of the most advanced interstellar vessel ever conceived by human intellect. That is, if you believe the press releases at the time, of course, but let us not be cynical, eh? Today is a day for celebration, after all, and we must all give considerable thanks to our pilgrim mothers and fathers. It was their momentous arrival upon this green planet which caused the first stirrings of our great work. Now, after two centuries of planning, preparation, and the accumulation of resources, we can finally begin.”

          The speaker turned to face the room, and raised his glass. The red liquid inside shimmered like a gemstone in the low light of the exquisite banquet hall. Bedecked in his finest black suit and hat, he stood before a crowd of inhuman figures, his back to a gigantic, stained glass tableau depicting figures accomplishing incredible feats of strength and daring, or engaged in battles waged in traditional folk legends, which had been told since before anyone alive could rightly recall.

          “I propose a toast, to man and his boundless curiosity. I also propose a blessing, in hopes that the great guardian spirits of old shall watch over them all. And do you know why, my friends?”

           “Because no-one else will!” chorused the gathered guests.

           “That’s right!” the speaker said jovially. “For the present, my friends, let us eat, drink, and be happy, for tomorrow night, I, Professor Oleander Havoc, shall lead you all towards victory, and the greatest of the Mirinoian city-states shall be crushed under our conquering feet!”

          A cheer of, “Wreak Havoc! Wreak Havoc! Wreak Havoc!” arose from the crowd. The professor listened in satisfaction to their adulations for a few moments, then raised his free hand to appeal for quiet. “Thank you, thank you, but I could never have brought us this far alone. We’ve all had our share of adversity, not just from a certain miserable, second-rate boffin—”

          Sneers and innuendo.

          “—but also from our natural enemy, that accursed star which keeps the humans’ light-loving little faces aglow.”

          Jeers and boos.

          “So, let me offer special recognition to these five upstanding individuals, without whom none of this would be possible.”

          He snapped his fingers, and as if in answer, the whole room went black. A series of spotlights came on, illuminating a set of five figures whose faces were so pale and ghastly, that they might turn the blood of any who witnessed them to freeze. Professor Havoc gestured to them each in turn, and each introduction was met by applause from the crowd. The first of this macabre quintet was a hunched, elderly man, dressed in a coat the colour of fresh gore, and an ornate, eye-catching tiepin resembling a four-eyed skull from some infernal bird. A safari helmet, with a pair of brass goggles affixed to the front, sat neatly atop his bald head.

          “My dear Great Uncle Taxas, that irrepressible explorer of all things occult, who has tamed the most fearsome beasts of the jungle. Let’s give him a big hand, shall we? Somebody pour a drink for the old crook!”

          “Good show, lad!” Great Uncle Taxas agreed. “Absolutely bully! Ah, thank you. I’ll take the A-positive, yes.”

          The second was a rather plump and theatrical-looking older woman with thick, wobbling jowls, brightly painted scarlet lips, and a fanciful gold mask over her eyes. She was clad in a flowing emerald gown, the cut of which gave the impression that she was propelled along the ground by a writhing mass of octopus tentacles.

          “The Lady Hippomane! Who could ask for a more loving or—” he paused for a light chuckle, “—beautiful mother-in-law?” A few others joined in the merrymaking until the speaker silenced them. “Her operatic intonations are most certain to bring even the sturdiest of structures crashing down! Let’s hear it for her!”

          Lady Hippomane, apparently oblivious to the insult, cupped her pudgy hands together in front of her and belted out a, “Thank you!” that made the walls tremble and knocked a stone bust off its pedestal.

          “Now, now, save it for the main event, Mumsie,” said the professor, supporting himself against the wall. He cleared his throat. “And who can forget the two, true, dyed-in-the-wool warriors among us? Orchestrating our militaristic efforts will be the life of every party, Captain Precatorius!”

          A broad-shouldered figure wearing a severe military dress suit and steely expression, grunted dismissively and shot steam out of his nostrils.

          “And our courageous man on the frontlines, the sharpest ears, the keenest eyes, and the fastest shot in the galaxy, Mister Walter Cowbane!”

          A man with a shock of spiky blue hair framing his leonine features tipped his wide-brimmed hat and winked to a few of the female guests, causing at least one to immediately faint dead away.

          “Steady on, Walt, old boy, don’t overdo it,” said Havoc, wagging a gloved finger in mock admonishment.

          “Yes, save one for me!” crowed Great Uncle Taxas.

          “Sorry I can’t oblige you, pal,” replied Cowbane. His voice was low, and rumbled like a bulldozer, “but filly or foe, once you’re in my sights, there ain’t no gettin’ away.”

          Havoc’s voice took on a softer, more serene tone now, as he spoke not out of excitement or humour, but true admiration. “And last of all,” he said, “but certainly, far from least, the woman who reminds me at every moon-rise what it is I fight for, the one who makes my heart beat again, my soul mate, my best friend, and now I am proud to say, my bride, the Lady Belladonna.”

          A wave of adoring “oohs” and “aahs” swept across the banquet hall as the final spotlighted figure lowered the paper fan she was holding. One half of her face had a cold, flawless, porcelain kind of allure, while the other side was engulfed beneath the shadow of her elegant bonnet. The hem of her billowing dress obscured her footsteps so perfectly that she seemed to glide smoothly through the air as she approached him.

          The professor took her hand and kissed the delicate white knuckles. “Soon, all the world will love you as I do,” he said, then twirled her into an embrace and turned to face the admiring guests. “In just a few hours, the age of man will end and the age of the vampire will begin! Once this planet succumbs to us, the rest of the universe follows!”

          The crowd chorused in raucous agreement, while outside, on the manor’s rooftop, a lone man listened. His name was Darby, overworked but ever-faithful servant to the aforementioned miserable, second-rate boffin. The cold wind bit through his clothes, but that was nothing compared to the horrified realisation of what was happening beneath him. He took out his earpiece and began folding up the garage-built surveillance device, an almost comical conglomeration of wires, circuit boards, and a rotating gyroscope with various antennas attached.

          As he slipped the machine into his backpack, he looked out at the distance between where he was now and where he might find safety. Miles across the treeline, the pale yellow lights of Terra Venture’s skyscrapers shone against the darkness. Somewhere amid the towering stone, glass, and steel, and hidden by automatic fortifications, a secret resistance was mounting, but now he feared it would not be ready in time.

          “No time to waste. Must contact the mistress,” he muttered to himself, something he did when his nerves were standing on end. It helped him to focus. He rolled up his sleeve to reveal the long-range communicator strapped to his wrist, and pressed down on the transmitter switch to make his status report. Once that was done, he got up, ignoring the ache in his legs and back from having been crouched in the same position for hours, and darted towards the back of the house, where his transportation awaited him. The polished air-bike rose up into view like a welcome sunrise, but before he could reach it, something else emerged from the trees.

          The newcomer was tall and thin, and moved through the branches with a fluid gait and speed that were otherworldly to behold. Its clothes were a bizarre mishmash of a tuxedo and a _shinobi shozoku_. An oversized skullcap covered the top half of its milky white face, leaving only its small, red-painted mouth exposed. The creature easily crossed the space and alighted on the roof, blocking the path to the air-bike. Darby fell immediately into his defensive posture, arms raised, feet apart, head lowered. His opponent bared its short, sharp fangs and loosed a hiss. At once, several more identical monsters materialised out of the aether.

          Darby tensed. He looked ready to fight, but was preparing to bolt. The question was where to? He could never reach the air-bike, and heading into the forest would be suicide. Then again, that was only if they caught him, and truth be told, he had known the job would be dangerous when he took it. “Hate to love you and leave you, fellows,” he said, “but it’s past my bedtime.” With that, he turned and raced back across the rooftop. The six Corpuscles, the lesser un-dead, gave chase without hesitation.

          Although they had no breath to feel on the back of his neck, Darby knew the first one was already closing in on him. He stopped, pivoted, and thrust out with a side-kick. His foot collided with the chest of one of the creatures. The Corpuscle staggered into its comrade, who was standing right behind it, but both quickly recovered. Not quickly enough, it turned out, as Darby seized the opportunity to don a pair of black gloves with studded, silver knuckle-caps. He drove a hard right cross into the front Corpuscle, and smoke spilled off the surface of its suit as if it had been doused with acid.

          The second Corpuscle drew its serrated sword and swung for his head. Darby nimbly ducked underneath it, then shot a left jab into its ribs, forcing it to recoil as a small explosion burst from it. A third creature grabbed him from behind, as the second recuperated and started to advance on him, joined by a fourth, also unsheathing its blade. Darby braced himself, took hold of the arm wrapped around his throat, and kicked off the roof, planting both feet into the swordsmen. He then twisted free and flipped the third over his shoulder and onto its back, delivering a sharp hammer fist into its solar plexus. He saw the fourth return out of the corner of his eye, rolled away from its downward swing, which drew sparks as it struck the spot where he had been, then wrapped his ankles around its neck and a gave a great pull. The Corpuscle, already overbalanced, slammed headfirst into the tiles and bounced away.

          Darby grabbed its abandoned blade and got to his feet, as three more Corpuscles started circling him, gradually closing the space between them and their prey.

          Blissfully unaware of all this was Professor Havoc. As the fight waged on above his head, he was enjoying the first waltz of the evening with his wife. All around the two, other couples had joined the fun, spinning and sweeping like black lilies on a lake of ichor, while the conductor led his band in a melancholic tune. Belladonna’s voice was smooth and sweet, like poisoned honey. “I’ve always boasted to mother that you speak as well as you dance, and now you’ve had your chance to prove it, _mon amour_.”

          A shudder ran through the professor’s entire body, and he clutched her tighter against him. “You know what it does to me when you speak French, _cara bella_ ,” he said. “It gets my blood boiling.”

          “Only that?” she asked. “Dear Ollie, you used to say I drove you to madness. Am I losing my touch?”

          He snickered evilly, and ran the fingers of one hand down her smooth cheek. “Not at all. Every time I see you, I go quite mad with passion. Come, let’s ditch this party and go for a moonlit stroll together, maybe partake of a couple of teenaged lovers. What do you say?”

          Their reverie was interrupted by the hefty frame of the vampire named Precatorius approaching them. He politely removed his officer’s cap. “Apologies for interrupting,” he said with a sound like cracking ice, “but I would like just a moment of the professor’s time.”

          “Of course, dear captain,” said Belladonna, breaking away from her husband. “Don’t worry, I won’t be going anywhere.” With that, she sauntered into the crowd and began dancing with Mister Cowbane, who guided her into a zestful tango.

          The two men left the banquet hall, entering a long, dimly illuminated corridor. They came to stop beside a grandiose portrait of the professor’s father, as austere and magnificent an un-dead baron as there ever was. Precatorius replaced his cap and said, “Professor, I’ve received a communication from security. The Corpuscles are currently engaging an intruder. They believe it’s Major Darby.”

          The professor nodded. “Ah! Yes, the Euclidia woman’s indelible cat’s-paw. Very well,” he said. “Let’s not ruin a good party, though, eh? Great Uncle Taxas isn’t beating the staff to a pulp, my wife is having a great time, and her sow of a mother hasn’t said two snide words to me all night. What kind of monster would wish to spoil a wonder like that? No, let’s have this intruder brought directly to my study. In irons. Take the servants passages, so he isn’t seen. I will be there shortly.”

          “Yes, sir,” said the captain. “Minimum necessary force?”

          The professor scoffed at that. “Oh! Of course not, old boy!” he said. “By all means, break as many limbs as you need to. Just make sure he’s alive and able to talk afterwards, but, ah, no biting, please. No. You or the menials will only give him something horrid if you sink your choppers into him.”

          He was about to start heading back towards the hall, when Precatorius spoke up again. “Another thing, professor. I would like to offer my help with the questioning. I have a lot of experience with interrogation techniques, and I believe that we could use him to address some of the concerns I mentioned to you previously.”

          The professor gave him a _‘do-whatever’_ sort of wave over his shoulder, his noncommittal way of acknowledgement. Precatorius frowned, and shot steam out of his nostrils, but said nothing. His master may have been a fop who was too quick to give into his sybaritic desires, but he was also dangerously charismatic, and a raised voice at this time would only wind up rallying the flock and taking the time he needed for more practical pursuits. He pressed a hidden panel on the side of his cap, and a microphone flipped down from under its peak. After delivering his orders, he quickly made his way out to the gardens, taking one of the multitudinous secreted doorways for the sake of expediency. He emerged just in time to see a Corpuscle spin off the roof with a high-pitched cry, landing with a sickening snap on a spike trap, which caught the poor, stupid creature like a pair of jaws. Precatorius turned his gaze skyward, and a low, furious growl escaped his throat.

          A silent alarm klaxon flashed behind Darby’s eyes, as if he could feel the presence below displacing the air around it. He reached behind his back with his free hand, using his thumb to unhook the button on the pouch hanging from his belt. He withdrew an object roughly the size and shape of a chicken egg, and hurled it at the feet of the nearest creature. The smoke bomb erupted, engulfing the Corpuscles, giving Darby the chance to go for his air-bike. He easily cleared the distance, landing with one leg over the seat, and revved the throttle. The propulsion units integrated into the back and bottom of the vehicle gave off a cool, turquoise glow. It was just as he began to feel as if he had gotten past the difficult stage, when an explosion tore the bottom of his bike away from him, and he fell with a scream towards the mist-covered earth.

          Silver-sharp pain lanced through his body, and it took everything he had to move away before a vertical fire trap took off his head. The heat licked at his shoulder and back as he moved up onto his knees. His left arm was dislocated by the impact, he had lost his stolen sword, and he was in the middle of the peril-laden stretch of garden that surrounded the manor on all sides.

          “Well, this just got complicated,” he said aloud.

          “You have no idea,” replied Precatorius, stepping out of the shadows, wielding a massive, basket-hilted sword with vicious, curved barbs along the length of the blade. “It has been a long time, boy. I can see you’re thinking of your escape, but I wouldn’t risk it. Your bike is destroyed, and you’re injured. Your choices are to come with me, and perhaps live, or refuse—”

          “And be killed?” Darby interrupted him.

          Precatorius shook his head. “No, I’m not some savage,” he said, “but I will leave you out here. Only I know the precise layout of the house’s countermeasures. Try as you might to figure out an escape route, you’ll die from either an infection or starvation, and even if you could somehow make it past that, the forest is fraught with my master’s creations. So, please, Major, do the sensible thing.”

          Darby knew when he was beaten. He raised his unharmed hand above his head.

* * *

You may recall that, before he was intercepted by the Corpuscles, Darby was able to transmit a short message to someone. Hurtling through the air at incalculable speed while its sender fought for his very life, it was received by the communications desk at Euclidia Laboratories, a small research facility in the suburbs of Terra Venture. Sigma, the robot maid, was in the process of cleaning the baroque profusion of radiating coils, towering switch panels, chemical devices, and overhead pipework, when she noticed the rhythmic chiming emanating from the nearby console. Since that particular light had only one possible use, there being only one agent in the field who could access the laboratory’s comms frequency, she started to panic.

          “Oh, my! Oh, my! Uh, Doctor Euclidia!” she hollered, waving her feather duster in the air. “Doctor Euclidia, we have incoming on the private channel!”

          Electrical energy snaked along a thick mass of wires, which fed into the wall surrounding a large monitor fashioned in the shape of an ornate, antique mirror, befitting the room’s bizarre techno-rococo presentation. The reflective surface darkened, then filled with a bubbling, ever-shifting plane of colour, not unlike a Mandelbrot set. After a few seconds, the shape of a face, or the closest equivalent thereof, began to manifest itself in the centre. The face opened its eyes, revealing two glimmering pools of aquamarine.

          “Calm yourself, Sigma,” the electronic construct said in a husky, feminine voice. “Transfer it to my scanner.”

          Sigma pressed a switch next to the flashing light. A small rectangle opened up in the corner of the mirror, displaying a close view of Darby’s rugged facial features and mane of flawless, obsidian black hair.

          “Greyhound-One to Mission Control,” he said. “Do you read, Mission Control?”

          “We read you, Darby,” replied the doctor. “Proceed with your report.”

          “The invasion’s happening much sooner than expected,” he said. “They’re planning to attack the city tomorrow night, and Havoc’s brought some of his most powerful allies into the fold. I don’t know how much more information I can gather from here, so I’ll attempt to infiltrate the enemy base.”

          “But that’s too dangerous!” Sigma protested. “You need to get out of there now, before they catch you!”

          “I’m sorry, Sigma, but it’s imperative that we gather every crumb of data that we can,” the spy replied levelly. “Doctor Euclidia, I know you realise I’m right. I’ll try my best to find out what I can and get back to you both, but until then, the doctor will know what to do. Out.”

          The image blinkered out as Darby rolled his sleeve over his communicator, but he had evidently left the transmitter on. His two co-conspirators listened intently as he fought his way past the Corpuscle ambush. There was a sound of an explosion, a short, sharp cry, a metallic crack, and then static. Sigma mashed the send button on the console with a bionic thumb.

          “Darby? Darby, are you there? Answer me! Come on!”

          “His communicator must’ve been damaged,” Doctor Euclidia surmised. “See if his tracker is still functioning.”

          Sigma tapped another switch on the console. A map of the region opened along the bottom of the monitor, with a white dot flashing over the relative area of the vampire manor. “It is!” Sigma exclaimed. “Are we going to rescue him? How are we going to do it? The transporter isn’t finished yet!”

          “As much as it pains me to say so, I’m afraid we have more pressing matters to attend to before we can consider that course of action,” replied the doctor solemnly. “We must initiate the plan immediately. Prepare the data cards while I power up the reintegration beams.”

          Sigma’s vocaliser loosed a distorted squawking noise. “But we haven’t been able to run the necessary tests! We don’t know if the beams will actually work!”

          “We have assimilated the technology as best we can, Sigma,” the doctor’s voice was firm. “I wish as much as anybody that we had more time, but the reality is we do not. If we falter, and do not make the attempt now, it would be far worse than failure.”

          If Sigma had possessed lips, she would have been gnawing on them nervously. She nodded her head and scampered off, abandoning her feather-duster. The image of Doctor Euclidia closed its eyes, and two rows of brilliant lights—pink, blue, red, purple, yellow—illuminated both sides of the room like a landing strip, coming to a stop at the reintegration machine. The device took the form of a chamber dug into the side of the room. The space at the bottom was occupied by a grey platform, large enough for roughly a half-dozen people to stand on, segmented into equal hexagonal sections, while a cluster of large, open-ended cylinders hung from the ceiling. Behind the platform, taking up a curvature of the wall, was a kind of brass spider’s-web, with green crystalline plates stuck to it. Coloured tails of energy coursed through the web, transforming into heat and gathering inside the cylinders.

          Sigma stationed herself beside the nearest instrument panel. She retrieved a small box from a hidden compartment, and from it she took five translucent, plastic circuit boards, which she placed inside a series of slots at one end of the panel. She flipped some switches, and something behind the wall started humming.

          “Upload complete, Doctor,” the robot maid reported. “Structural template set, and memory data is being overlaid now.”

          “Excellent,” replied Euclidia. “Then, I shall commence the proto-matter replication.” Chemicals in glass tubes bubbled and steamed as they travelled through underground pipes. Thick, molten sludge oozed over the platform. Sigma yelped as sparks belched off something beside her.

          “Oh, my! Overload!” she squealed.

          “We cannot stop now. Standby and prepare to make adjustments,” the doctor replied. Sigma gave her a nervous salute and turned back to her instruments.

          “Beginning stage-two replication,” said Euclidia. Bolts of raw power fell from the cylinders and infused the mixing, churning chemical soup. A cacophony of metallic screams erupted from some point between existence and nonexistence, as the liquid evaporated. The resultant fog spilled out into the laboratory in a heavy wave, blanketing the floor and consuming Sigma up to her knees.

          “Compensating,” the robot maid said, slowly adjusting a dial with trembling fingers. “Oh, my! My positronic circuits can’t take this kind of pressure.”

          “Focus, Sigma. This is the crucial stage.”

          Sigma simulated a deep breath, wiped imaginary sweat off her brow, and nodded her head. “Yes, doctor. Almost…there! The structural map’s been accepted! Ready to infuse synthetic quasar particles!”

          Further light burst from the cylinders, this time as a quintet of broad, blindingly radiant pillars. A deafening tone rang through the laboratory. Sigma screamed as a burst of heat from her instruments hurled her onto her back. Flames roared from the heart of the reintegration chamber, machinery strained, and then, finally, the room was plunged into lifeless darkness. On her hands and knees, Sigma activated her night-vision filter, and managed to find her way to a fire extinguisher to douse the blaze. She looked all around her at the chaos and made a worried sound. Her anxiety was not appeased when the backup generator came on. The dense mist still choked the room, obscuring her vision, but surely if anything were alive, it would have moved. Her mechanical heart sank.

          “We’ve failed, Doctor,” she whimpered. “Now what’ll we do?”

          The image in the mirror, which had been flickering in and out moments before, reasserted itself as its energy stabilised. “Perhaps not, Sigma. Check the monitor.” The robot nodded, and walked with an awkward, waddling gait back towards the half-melted panel beside the chamber. A dim screen displayed five horizontal lines, all of which now pinged out with a rhythmic heartbeat.

          “Then we did it!” Sigma clapped her hands together and jumped excitedly. “We did it, Doctor Euclidia!”

          “Oh! I’ll say you did it,” responded another voice. A low, growling one that reverberated as if the words were coming through one end of a metal pipe. As the mist finally began to settle, five forms emerged from the reintegration chamber. They were tall, and strong, and clad in fearsome, black and white armour plates. The chest and shoulders were framed by different colours—red, blue, pink, yellow, and black—in mean, sharp patterns. The shoulders were pointed, and extended outwards like a bat’s wings. The helmets were decorated with tapering horns that arched backwards, wide, angular eyes, and sculpted mouths with sharp canine teeth.

          It was the red warrior, the leader of the group, that had spoken, and with a dramatic flourish of his gloved hand, he went on, “Let the galaxy be warned, because the Psycho Rangers are back, and this time, no force in creation will stop us!”

          The one in black made a cursory scan of his surroundings. “All well and good, fearless leader,” he said coolly, “but before we warn the galaxy, maybe we should figure out where in the galaxy we even are. This sure as heck isn’t the Secret City.”

          The one in blue punched his open palm and laughed nastily, like knives rattling in a drawer. “Who cares? One place is as good as another for what I’ve got in mind.”

          “And that would be?” asked the one in yellow, evidently female. “As if I couldn’t guess.”

          Blue snorted behind his visor. “What else? I’m going to mash me some metal!” Quick as a whip, he reached out a hand and grabbed Sigma, pulling her in close. “Let’s start with Daisy Diodes over here!”

          The fifth warrior, the one in pink, struck him upside the head. “Get real, you pervert. Every rampage you’ve ever been on ended with you getting your skull bounced off the sidewalk by the Power Rangers.”

          Still holding Sigma prisoner, Blue wheeled on his assailant. “Don’t test me, Pink,” he snarled, “or I’ll use _your_ skull to sharpen my axe!”

          Red shut them both up with a glare. “Pink makes a good point,” he said, “where are those goody-goods, anyhow? Andros and I have a score that needs settling!”

          Sigma, in a quavering voice, called their attention. “Actually, it’s funny you should mention that,” she piped up. “Um, Doctor Euclidia, you maybe want to take it from here?” She pointed a finger towards the monitor bearing the doctor’s visage. Blue promptly shoved her to one side as all five of the newly born creatures—People? Monsters? Machines?—approached her mistress.

          “Seems like you’re the one running this sideshow,” said Red, crossing his arms over his chest. “I guess we owe you for busting us out of the clink, so you got one minute to explain yourself.”

          The doctor’s simulated expression remained stoic, and her modulated voice was firm and authoritative. “Very well,” she said. “My name is Doctor Irena Euclidia, I am one of Mirinoi’s leading scientists. You have already met my maid, Sigma. I have restored the five of you to life so that you may carry out an important mission. This planet is threatened by a force for pure evil. This man—”

          A square opened on the monitor, displaying a suited man in a tall hat. His face was partially covered by a mask with large, round eyepieces and a long, hooked nose, so that he looked like a plague doctor from antiquity.

          “—is Professor Oleander Havoc. He and I have been enemies for many years, and now he is ready to invade Terra Venture with his un-dead legions. Although the security forces are even now rallying to mount a defence, I am not confident that they have the capability to do so.”

          “So you want us to step in and play hero,” said Black thoughtfully.

          Blue let out a sharp, hysterical hoot. “Yeah, right! I say let this Havoc dude run free! Sounds to me like he knows how to have a good time! Besides, do we look like Power Punks to you? Plot twist, big-face, we like evil!”

          Psycho Yellow nodded. “Speaking of the Power Rangers, we’re still waiting on an answer about that,” she said. “Why aren’t you giving them this spiel?”

          “According to our intelligence,” came the reply, “you were digitalised and stored on your data cards in the year 1998 of the old Gregorian calendar. By that system, it is now the year 2208. I’m afraid it is unlikely the Power Rangers you knew are still around, and even if they were, you’re all a very long way from the planet Earth.”

          Black tapped the side of his helmet with a finger. “That explains why my chronometer’s doing the hokey-pokey. We’ve been in stasis for two-hundred years.”

          “Two-hundred-and-ten,” Sigma put in helpfully as she waddled up beside the mirror.

          Red clenched his fists so tightly that the tendons could be heard cracking. “Then Andros and the other Power Rangers are gone. Darn it! Destroying those weaklings was what we were made for! Now what do we have?”

          “A choice,” said Euclidia matter-of-factly. “You are no longer enslaved. You can decide to be something greater than tools of destruction. You can think for yourselves.”

          “You said you had a mission for us,” Yellow pointed out. “That’s not a choice, that’s you doing the same as the last guys.”

          Euclidia shook her head. “That is incorrect,” she said. “While I do need you to help me protect this world from evil, I do not force it upon you. You may refuse.” Her lip twisted in a small smirk. Her eyes shifted to Blue, who was twitchily bouncing from foot to foot. “Of course, should you indeed choose to destroy my laboratory and me with it, I will no longer be obligated to help you acclimate to your situation.”

          “I do like the sound of being my own man,” said Blue. He followed up with a shrill snicker. “And I really like the sound of beating on an army of, uh, what did you call ’em? Un-dead? That’s like vampires, right? I could do the whole Van Helsing thing. Drive a few stakes into their hearts, a little divine intervention, I’ve scoped the literature.”

          “Oh, please! As if you’ve ever read _Dracula_ ,” sniped Yellow.

          “As if you can read,” murmured Pink, who was rubbing her neck in obvious discomfort. Black put a concerned hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged him off. “I’m fine. I just need some air. Must be all this smoke getting through my helmet’s air filters.”

          “Pink, our helmets don’t _have_ air filters,” said Black. “We never needed them.”

          Sigma walked up to her and offered a hand. “Please, just step this way,” she said kindly. Pink hesitated for a moment, then accepted the gesture, and was led out of the laboratory.

          “Great, Pink’s already going soft on us,” Blue sneered.

          Black immediately stepped in front of him. “That’s enough,” he said sternly.

          Blue tilted his head in amused wonderment, then stepped up to the taller warrior. “Well, well, check out Mister Nice Guy over here. What’re you going to do about it?” As they both started squaring off, Yellow got in between and pushed them apart.

          “I got a question for you, Doc,” said Red. “There were supposed to be Power Rangers stationed all over the galaxy. Are you seriously telling me this planet—Mirinoi?—doesn’t have any of its own?”

          “It did once,” Euclidia replied. “On Mirinoi, the Rangers were chosen by five mystical artefacts, the Quasar Sabres.” Another image appeared on the screen, this time of a large boulder in the middle of a forest, with five ornate swords embedded deep in it. “Those who were worthy enough to draw the sabres from the sacred stone were given the powers of the primal elements, but I have been unable to find a group matching all the criteria necessary to accomplish this. My only success was in creating a synthetic version of the unique energy signatures from within the—”

          Red waved it off. “All right, all right, I get it. You’re really strapped for options, so you got desperate and called in the third stringers. This Professor Havoc must be serious bad news if you’re willing to bet on us.” He turned towards the other three, and huddled in close to them. “What do you think, guys? Speaking for myself, I’m not sure I buy all this stuff about us being in the future.”

          “I think she’s at least telling the truth about that,” said Black. He indicated his helmet. “The chronometer never lies, you know?”

          “She said there was a legion. That’s like a bajillion losers we can turn to paste,” said Blue. “And it’s got more perks than our last gig. Astronema yanked us about like a pack of dogs, always sticking her pretty little nose in just before we could finish off the Power Pukes. Plus, I’ll bet T.J. never got to waste vampires.”

          “There was that one time with Carlos,” Black pointed out.

          Blue scoffed. “That doesn’t count, that was one of Divatox’s freaky, fish-faced monsters, not a real vampire! At least, I think that’s what happened.”

          “Well, I think we’re straying from the actual point,” said Yellow. “We need to figure out an angle.”

          “What do you mean?” asked Red.

          “Never give anything for free,” said Yellow. “Since Black’s confirmed when we are, there’s no point asking for a chance to get back at the Rangers. Unless laser-lips over there’s got access to a convenient time machine, we’re going to have to live with the fact that we’re here and they’re not.”

          “Good enough for me,” said Blue, though Red hung his head slightly, clearly not so willing to accept that. “So what should we ask for instead?”

          “Well, I was thinking—” Yellow was cut off by a piercing scream from somewhere outside. Euclidia watched silently as the four of them raced out of the door through which Sigma had led Pink earlier. They found themselves in what appeared to be a private study, where a tall bookshelf on a set of rails sat beside the entrance. They passed through this into a wood-panelled hallway, and finally to another open door, this one apparently leading into a lavish sitting room (Blue and Yellow both noted their benefactor’s taste in luxuries, though for entirely different reasons). What they saw in there stopped them colder than a hundred mighty enemies, or a thousand do-gooding Power Rangers. On the floor was Psycho Pink’s discarded helmet, and before them, wearing her armour, with a look of wide-eyed terror on her face, was a girl.

          “What the heck’s going on here?” growled Psycho Black.

          “Guys, it’s me,” the girl said in a trembling voice, “I’m Psycho Pink, and I think I’m human!”

 

[END OF ACT ONE]

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are, the first act of episode one. I've been a super-fan of Power Rangers since the very beginning, but this is my first attempt at a fan-fiction in ages. So, I hope people enjoy it. I'm always open to constructive criticism (please no "this sucks," or what have you, because I can't improve from that) to my work, even when it's something done for fun like this. So, a few quick notes here:
> 
> Around 2003, there was a notable fan-fiction known as "Power Rangers Hidden War," in which the Psycho Rangers defend a parallel universe. That story was not without its flaws, but it presented a lot of nice nods to past continuity, plus some very interesting ideas, including untold backstory to expand on the universe. Sadly, that story was never concluded, and it's unlikely to ever be revived. What we have here is a similar attempt at the idea of previous villains becoming heroes, with a few cues in homage to "Hidden War."
> 
> From a production standpoint, the lead villains of the story utilise the appearances of the Shadow Line leaders in the 2014-15 series "Ressha Sentai ToQger." Professor Havoc is based on the costume used for Baron Nero, Belladonna on Madame Noir, Great Uncle Taxas on Count Nair, Lady Hippomane on Marchioness Morc, Precatorius on General Schwarz, and Walter Cowbane on Zaram. The Corpuscles, the obligatory underlings, are derived from the Cotpotros from the 1993-94 series "Gosei Sentai Dairanger."
> 
> The idea behind Doctor Euclidia kind of combines Professor Hart from "V.R. Troopers," SHODAN from the "System Shock" games, and of course the original Ranger mentor himself, Zordon of Eltar. Sigma, similar to the villains, utilises the costume for Wagon from "ToQger." I thought that making the support team a butler and maid would befit Wagon's overall design. Euclidia Laboratories is in the vein of Light Labs from the "Mega Man," games, the Capsule Corp. headquarters in "Dragon Ball," or the Utonium household from the original "Powerpuff Girls," a combination suburban home and futuristic domed facility.
> 
> The interactions between Professor Havoc and Belladonna were of course inspired by Gomez and Morticia Addams of "The Addams Family," a long-time favourite of mine, and to a lesser extent Prince Gasket and Archerina from "Power Rangers Zeo." In an ideal world, Havoc's voice would be a sound-alike of Raul Julia in the 1991 film version, whereas Belladonna's would be in the style of Anjelica Huston, or Nancy Linari's portrayal of Morticia in the 1992 animated series.
> 
> Sorry to be abrupt. That's about it for the time being. See you next time!  
> —MajorSteed


	2. Psychos Gone Ranger, Act 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which discoveries are made.

**EPISODE ONE, ACT TWO**

 

Psycho Pink had never been much for conversation. She was more the hands-on type, a doer, not a talker, and right that second, what she wanted to do more than anything was choke the heck out of somebody. During her captivity she had remained in a kind of sleep state, but now she had returned to consciousness, the image of their final battle in Astronema’s Secret City was as clear as crystal. They were corralled like dumb animals into the beam of the digitising machine. The trap was sprung before any of them had a chance to realise what was happening, and then it was lights out. Until today, that was the final curtain call.

          It was the sight of Psycho Yellow, however, that really upset her. She remembered her so-called teammate promising her sweet little Cassie Chan as a prize, so she could take her time draining her energies. Having been created for the sole purpose of defeating her counterpart, Pink had been all too eager to sign up. When the time came to put their plan into action, Yellow had swooped in and spirited off Ashley Hammond instead. Despite her pleas, Yellow had simply laughed in her face, and left her to fight the rest of the Rangers alone. Barely escaping with her life, she had attempted to pay her back for her treachery, and in the end, that had led to her downfall.

          Psycho Yellow had pulled her strings and, when she was no longer useful, cut them. At the time, she had felt only outrage and frustration. Now, with hindsight, for reasons she could not possibly fathom, her perceptions had changed. There was this unwelcome pang inside her chest, something she lacked the vocabulary to describe. She could probably tap into her copied memories to fill in the blanks, but she was anxious about what she might find. Thankfully, something else occurred that allowed her to push those thoughts off to one side.

          She started to feel sick. The atmosphere inside her helmet grew heavy and oppressive. She tried to hide her nausea, when she felt a hand rest on her shoulder. She glanced back, and saw Psycho Black staring at her. It was impossible to tell what his expression might have been behind his visor, but the touch was gentle.

          “You doing all right, Pink?” he asked, keeping his voice low so as to avoid notice.

          She struggled for the right response. Her instincts told her this was a ploy, yet the possibility that his interest might be genuine was even more unsettling. She did the only thing she could think, which was to play tough. She put her hand over his, and brushed it away. “I’m fine,” she told him. “I just need some air. Must be all this smoke getting through my helmet’s air filters.” It seemed like a reasonable enough excuse.

          “Pink, our helmets don’t _have_ air filters,” he replied. “We never needed them.”

          She grimaced. He was completely right, of course. Her body, augmented with more than a dozen bionic and mutagenic upgrades, had removed her need for oxygen. Before she could start to formulate a response, their benefactor’s ridiculous robot flunkey had shuffled up to her and offered a hand.

          “Please, just step this way,” it had said in a manner Pink was unaccustomed to. She allowed herself to be led outside, and caught the beginning of the argument behind her. Maybe Blue, the sickening little sociopath, was right. Maybe having part of Cassie’s mind inside her head was making her soft. They entered the study, which contained a curved, wooden desk, and rows of books, framed certificates, and bizarre contraptions that she assumed must be some of the doctor’s older inventions. A large window gave a clear view of a vibrant garden with a water fountain in the centre.

          “Hey, uh, Sigma, was it?” she asked as they left the room and passed into the hallway. “What kind of place is this anyway?”

          “This is Euclidia Laboratories,” the robot maid explained chirpily. “For the three of us, it’s both home and headquarters, and I guess if you guys want to hang around, it’ll be the same for you, too!”

          Pink paused. “Three of you?”

          “Right! The doctor, myself, and—” an edge of worry crept into Sigma’s voice, “—Darby, the butler. He, he, he’s in such terrible danger right now.”

          “Why? What happened?” Pink asked. She decided that the robot’s stammer was going to get old fast.

          Sigma took a moment to get a hold of herself. “He found out that Professor Havoc was hosting a big bash at his manor,” she said, “so he thought it was the best time for a data-gathering mission, but he must’ve been ambushed. He’s still up there, but we don’t know if he’s okay or what those monsters might be doing to him. Oh, my! Oh, my!”

          “Hey, no need to blow a circuit,” Pink scolded. The last thing she needed was a hysterical mechanoid. She had enough problems to deal with—namely, why did she even give a damn?

          “Yes, yes, my apologies,” Sigma said, bowing her head. She guided her into another room. “This is the sitting room. I find it has the best ambience in the house.” She gave a nervous chuckle. “Whatever that means.”

          Psycho Pink scanned the room. If she were the type of monster who went in for opulence, this would definitely be the place for her. She found the clasps on her helmet and removed it. The inward rush of cool air was a gratifying relief. She reached up to fix her hair and—wait, since when did she have hair? She turned, looking for something reflective, only to land on Sigma, whose face was made up of a black, heart-shaped reflective panel. Staring back at her from its surface was not the frightening, floral features of her monstrous state, but a girl. A human girl! She screamed.

          The others appeared in the doorway, and all of them were gazing at her in what she could only guess was a mix of disgust, confusion, and abject horror.

          “What the heck’s going on here?” Psycho Black demanded.

          It took a second for her to find her voice. “Guys, it’s me,” she said. At least her voice still sounded the same. “I’m Psycho Pink, and I think I’m human!” There were a few mutterings of disbelief among the group, then Red grabbed Sigma by the wrist.

          “What do you and that egg-head do to her?” he snarled. When Sigma could only whimper in response, he shoved her against the wall. “I’m getting to the bottom of this! Come on, guys!” He stormed out of the room, followed closely by Yellow and Blue, who for once was refraining from making any kind of idiotic remarks. That could only mean he was actually taking this seriously, which was a rare phenomenon indeed. Pink tentatively slipped off one of her gloves, and saw a human hand underneath. Black was eyeing her up and down.

          “Is it really you, Psycho Pink?” he asked. She nodded. “It might just be a side-effect. See if you can transform.”

          She tried, squeezing her eyes shut and focussing on an image of how she should have looked. The hefty, scarlet bulbs on her shoulders, the masses of strangling tendrils that made up her limbs, the thick roots sprouting from her feet. She heard Black “hmm,” quietly to himself, and knew before she even reopened her eyes that nothing had changed. She saw Black offer a hand-up to Sigma.

          “Oh, why me?” the maid whined. “I’ve been knocked over more times in the last ten minutes than I have in my whole life!”

          “I find that hard to believe. Now be quiet and stand still,” Black told her evenly. He looked right into her face, and removed his own helmet. Pink’s apprehension mounted, and she instinctively hugged herself while bouncing on the balls of her feet. She saw a mop of dirty blonde curls spill down his shoulders. Cold, grey eyes peered out from underneath a thick unibrow. He had a large nose and a jaw that could crack walnuts. He gingerly inspected every facet of his newfound physiognomy. “Well, I guess I could’ve wound up with worse.”

          “How can you be so calm about this?” Pink asked frantically, stepping up to him.

          “I posited there was going to be one of two outcomes,” he said. “Either I was going to see a monster, and you had undergone some kind of freak metamorphosis, or more likely, it was going to be this. I was already prepared for either result. Besides, I figured something must have changed when I was no longer driven by a need to eliminate my opposite number.”

          He was meeting her gaze with his own. He was clinical and unwavering, his mouth a narrow line in his flesh. He tilted her chin up, but she turned away from him. This was all so surreal. She wondered for a moment if she was still asleep, caught in a nightmare, but she put her uncovered hand against his armoured chest and felt the coolness of the metal. She even sensed the rise and fall of his chest, now that he had a pair of working lungs. No dream could produce that amount of incidental detail, she was certain of it.

          “If I might interject,” said Sigma, “your new face isn’t bad either, Psycho Pink.” She slid open a compartment in her abdomen and retrieved a hand mirror. Pink was still shaken by the whole experience, understandably, but the initial adrenaline had lost its edge, giving her the clarity to actually take in her reflection. It was round, and the features denoted East Asian ancestry. The eyes were big and brown, the hair black and short, with a fringe that swept to the right. The nose was turned up ever so slightly at the end, and spattered with freckles.

          “I look like a chubby schoolkid,” she grumbled, then looked up at Psycho Black (she had never realised how much taller he was than her). “Red’s right, though. We should find out what’s happened to us.”

          “Agreed,” said Black. “Hopefully they haven’t torn the lab apart.”

          The three of them rushed back to the laboratory in time to see Psycho Red, sword in hand, pointing it threateningly at Doctor Euclidia’s screen and ranting angrily.

          It was Blue who noticed their return first. He pointed at them and cried out in an exaggerated Wild West drawl, “Well, lookie here, buckaroos! The circus is in town!” Red grunted questioningly, and he and Yellow both turned to face their teammates. Alarmed sounds arose from both of them.

          “Black’s a human, too!” Yellow said aloud, as realisation dawned on her. “Then that means we’re all…”

          Blue continued his wicked tirade, “Dang, Pinkie, you got fat! And man, Black, I don’t want to say your face would frighten small children and dogs or anything, but it’s like Hallowe’en came early!”

          Black’s expression remained impassive, but Pink took the bait. “Well let’s see how you look under there, wise-guy!” She threw Sigma’s hand mirror at him, and Blue deftly caught it in his outstretched hand.

          “Can’t be as gross as you two sideshow geeks,” he said, “not with my winning personality.” Before anybody could point out the flaw in his logic, Blue had yanked his helmet off and thrown it aside. Underneath was a young man with sharp, angular features and a dark complexion. His hair was cropped close to his head, while his chin was embellished with a triangular soul tip. “Oh, my God,” he murmured, then shot the others a snaggle-toothed grin. “Plot twist! I’m gorgeous!”

          Yellow heaved a sigh. “Fantastic,” she said, “now there’ll be no living with him.”

          Red wheeled on Euclidia again. “Answers, now!” he demanded. “What happened to them? Bad enough you want us to play the good guys, I was this close to letting that slide! But turning us into humans? That’s the absolute limit!

          “All will be explained,” came the reply from the mirror, “but please lower your weapon first. This place is in quite enough of a shambles, and I’m missing half my staff.” Sigma jumped a little, as if only then acknowledging the state of the room, and busied herself with tidying up. Red reluctantly sheathed his sword. “Thank you. During our analysis of the data stored on your cards, we discovered that your programming was of a biological nature. Those old forms were your shackles. In order to give you the choice between good and evil, I had to turn you human.”

          Black stepped forward. “So why these faces?” he asked. “We didn’t get a choice in that.”

          “Nobody chooses what they look like,” replied Euclidia, “but your human templates were based on information we found embedded in your genetic coding. We just smoothed over the gaps in that information.” A sequence of smaller screens opened up around her, displaying wireframe models of each of the Psycho Rangers, which gave way to anatomical diagrams.

          “Our genetic coding?” Yellow repeated. “That implies we were always human.”

          “Or close to it, at the very least,” agreed Black.

          Red slammed his fist down on a console, refusing to look upon the image that showed how he might appear without his augmentations. “No! That’s impossible!” he snapped. “Humans are weak and fragile! Psycho Rangers are better than that!”

          “Let it go, Red,” said Pink, finally regaining her nerves. She put one hand on his shoulder and the other against his chest, trying to mimic Black’s earlier show of kindness. “We’ve been beaten by humans too many times to even entertain that idea anymore. Astronema was one, and so were the Rangers. What I mean to say is, maybe it won’t be so bad.”

          “You have to admit, it’s nice not having our counterparts at the forefront of our minds all the time,” agreed Black. “And everyone running away at the sight of us got pretty tiresome after the first dozen or so times.”

          “Not for me!” said Blue, who was still admiring himself in the hand mirror. “I like screaming. All that being said, though, I could live with this.” He blew a kiss at his reflection. Yellow groaned in disgust, to which Blue stuck out his tongue and made a rude noise.

          “I can’t believe I’m hearing this!” cried Red, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “I’ve had enough of this garbage! You want us to choose? Fine, then, I choose evil! You can deal with Professor Ham-hock or whatever his name is without us! Come on, guys!”

          He spun on his heels and started marching away, until he noticed that he was alone. He looked back at the others. Yellow had removed her helmet, unveiling a girl with deep, emerald eyes, and long, auburn hair. High on her right cheek was a mole like a teardrop. Red spread his arms expectantly. “Hey, what’s with you four? If we’re quick, maybe we can find a way off this stinking planet!”

          None of them moved. Even Psycho Blue, practically a connoisseur of carnage, looked unsure. Red’s arms dropped to his sides. “Stupendous!” he cried. “All right, if you losers all want to play nice, then suit yourself. But not me. See, I’ve got way better things to do.” Just like that, he was gone.

          There was a pregnant, uncomfortable silence that seemed to stretch on for an eternity before Psycho Black broke it. “So what now?”

          “Ask me—” Blue started.

          “Which nobody did,” said Yellow.

          “I’d like to know more about this threat,” said Psycho Black. “For the time being, at least, siding against the vampires would be the most logical course of action.”

          “How do you figure?” asked Pink.

          “We’re human now,” said Black. “Professor Havoc won’t care who we used to be or who we worked for. If they mean to take the city, that includes all of us.”

          “We could always hightail it out of here before then,” said Blue.

          “Too risky,” said Black. “We don’t know this planet. We don’t know where the next nearest city is, we don’t know what we can or can’t eat in the wild. We could run for hours and wind up going in circles. At least let’s stay until we’ve weathered this storm, then we can worry about what happens next.”

          Blue, Pink, and Yellow all looked at him, then each other. None of them liked to admit it, but he was making sense. “That is acceptable,” said Doctor Euclidia. “Thank you.”

          “Don’t thank us yet,” said Black. “There’s still the issue of Red.”

          “He’ll come around,” said Pink, though Black did not seem convinced.

          Yellow stepped forth. “Hang on. There are a few conditions,” she said.

          “I suspected as much,” replied the doctor. “Very well. What are your terms?”

          Yellow balled up her right hand into a fist, extending the index finger. “Excellent,” she said. “First, I want a guarantee that we don’t go back into those data cards. Ever.”

          “Actually, I don’t think that’s going be a problem,” said Sigma, toddling up with a tray, on which were five blobs of melted plastic.

          Yellow ignored her, extending her middle finger next. “Second, you want us to be your Power Rangers, you’re going to have to arm us like Power Rangers. Weapons, blasters, Zords, the whole shebang. I’m not fighting a legion of monsters with a slingshot.”

          “That might be a little more difficult,” replied the doctor, “but I believe I can at least provide you with weapons.”

          “Big ones?”

          “We’ll see.”

          Yellow extended her ring finger. “Good. Third, we’re going to need—” She cut herself off, having noticed Blue leading Pink out of the door. “The heck are you two going?”

          “What, you expect me to walk around in these heavy metal pants all the time?” Blue replied. “We’re going shopping, sister!”

          “It’s almost midnight,” said Black, “and besides, you don’t have any money.”

          “There’s got to be an all-night place! And the doc can pick up the bill! That’s condition three!” Blue called back. “Come on, Pinkie, we’ve got to find you one of those double-X-L stores!” There was a resounding slap that made the rest wince, followed by a protest of, “What’d I say!?”

* * *

The Euclidia Laboratories building was situated in the suburbs, so it had taken time for Psycho Red to reach one of the urbanised sectors of Terra Venture, where he could find somewhere to think. He was presently stalking the alleyways of the commercial district, just out of the glow of the amber streetlamps. Not many people were around. Mostly late shoppers, night shift workers, and a few partygoers. Some figures in black helmets and padded uniforms were out on patrol. Highly trained security officers, no doubt, but even an idiot like Psycho Blue could figure out that standard-issue lasers would mean little against a swarm of ravenous, bloodsucking fiends.

          “Look at ’em,” he murmured aloud. “They don’t even know what kind of trouble they’re in. Ugh! What am I even talking about? I mean, I’m Psycho Red for crying out loud. I should destroy them all just for being happy while I’m…”

          The statement died on his lips, because in what possible way could he finish that sentence without admitting something terrible? Secret City may as well have been yesterday to him, but while he had slept, generations had lived and died. Andros was long gone. The one being in all the universe it was his mission to eliminate, and the rat had probably died in his bed, old and grey, surrounded by family and friends. He could just see it now. Beautiful wife, a hundred grandkids, and a big dog named Buddy. He leaned against the wall and wondered how humans could put up with feeling so worthless.

          A loud crash from somewhere nearby derailed his train of thought. He heard raised voices coming from one of the adjoining backstreets. Peering around the corner, he spotted six figures dressed in matching metallic jackets with the most extraordinarily neon piping. Four guys, two girls, and without two brain cells between them. They were circling another girl, who had been shoved into a mess of rubbish bins and cardboard boxes, which he assumed was the source of the crash. She was tightly clutching a small satchel to her chest. Even with the crazy outfits, Psycho Red could recognise a street gang when he saw one. He grimaced that even in the future good skin was still wasted on scum like that.

 

[ **B.G.M.:** _“Combat (Instrumental)”_ – Ron Wasserman]

 

“Get away from me,” the girl said. She was scared, but at least she looked ready to stand her ground instead of panic or flee.

          “Soon as you give us what you’ve got, babe,” the leader replied. She was comically short, with rainbow-dyed hair, and flicking a butterfly knife in and out with deft precision. “Boys, take the bag off her.”

          One of the lumbering oafs moved in and pulled the girl up by her shoulders, while another tugged the satchel away from her. Psycho Red had no idea what made him step out of the shadows at that point, but he later reasoned it was because he needed the stress relief.

          “Big, brave boys and girls,” he said. “How about you take on someone who can fight back?”

          “Hey. Back off, dude,” the thug holding the bag grunted.

          “What’s with that outfit?” the leader asked, tauntingly. “It’s not Hallowe’en, y’know.”

          Psycho Red chuckled wickedly, and dropped into a combat-ready stance. “Oh! After I’m done with you losers, every day’s going to be Hallowe’en! Come get me! What’re you scared of? There’s six of you and only one of me!”

          One of the larger men turned to his compatriot. “My dad always told me never mess with anybody crazier than you,” he muttered, and received a nod in reply.

          “One chance, bug-eyes,” the leader said, waving her butterfly knife. “Walk away and forget what you saw, or you’re in deep trouble.”

          “That’s mighty big talk for someone who has to tread water in the kiddie pool,” said Red, and gave them a daring wag of his fingertips. The leader lunged, swiping at him with the point of her knife. He caught her forward thrust, and in a single fluid movement, snatched the blade from her hand and spun her through the air. The momentum took her off her feet, and Red dropped her headfirst into a vacant bin. She kicked, struggled, and cursed furiously as he lifted her above his head, let out an exuberant laugh, and hurled her. Two of the men tried to catch the bin and ended up flattened for their troubles, dropping the satchel to the ground.

          Another gang member whipped out a telescopic baton and came at him with a downward swipe. Red caught him by the wrist and twisted until he let go of the weapon, ducked low and knocked him back with an elbow to the gut, then finished off with a roundhouse kick. As he straightened up, one of the remaining pair wound a length of chain around his throat and pulled tight, while the other swept him across the face with a lead pipe, which bent across the curve of his helmet. A surge of pain lanced through his temple, shaking his brain like a pinball. His lungs burned, his vision was getting bleary, and he could hear the blood thundering in his ears like a rapid drumbeat.

          “Ain’t so tough after all, are you, freak?” the distorted voice of the one holding the bent pipe cut through the miasma seconds before another blow caught him across the chest. A shower of white hot sparks burst from his armour.

          “You want tough?” he croaked. “I’ll show you tough!” He rammed both elbows as hard as he could into the body behind him. The chain went slack as its owner fell away from him. Red wrapped one end of the chain around his fist and began spinning it like a lasso. “Now this gives me an idea.” He snapped upwards, and the other end of the lasso looped itself around the bottom rung. With a yank, the ladder dropped down between the two fighters, and Red hitched the chain’s hook to the terrified gang member’s belt. “Going up,” he said, and roughly shoved it upwards. The gang member flailed helplessly like a worm on a fishing line.

          The rest had already gotten to their feet and were fleeing into the night, their leader still trying to get the bin off her head. “We’ll get you for this!” one of them promised.

          “The name’s Psycho Red! Remember that, ’cause this here’s my turf now!” Psycho Red responded. He was feeling dizzy, and put one hand against the wall to steady himself. His helmet had lessened, but evidently not neutralised that bonk on the noggin. He realised that something else was wrong with him, too. His stomach was cramping up on him. He turned back down the alley to face the terrified girl, but before he could say a word, a wave of nausea overtook him, and he collapsed.

 

_Get up, you sorry excuse for a Ranger! I thought you’d be a more worthy opponent!_

_I’m not finished yet!_

_Oh! But you are!_

_Words exchanged between rivals on the battlefield. Difficult telling who says what. The link between minds makes them almost indistinguishable, and the rush of combat is louder than either. Their blades clash over and over, each overload spilling searing heat on the ground. One feels the agonising sting of a photon beam cutting through his defensive shields, and falls screaming to the ground. He sees the shimmering tip of a sword at his throat. Before the final blow strikes, the triumphant one finds himself elsewhere. Psycho Red looks around frantically. The place is dark and featureless, an artificial void._

_What happened? Come on! Show yourself! Who brought me here?_

_This is familiar. The order of events is different, but yes, he has been here before. He knows what comes next. Ecliptor, Astronema’s freakish attack dog, will emerge from hiding._

_I did._

_He turns. No! Not Ecliptor! Andros stands before him, Spiral Sabre in hand. The show goes on. He unsheathes his sword and swings. Andros deflects the attack with ease and tells him he will regret that._

_I regret nothing!_

_He unleashes an optic blast. The attack sizzles uselessly against Andros’s suit. Anger builds inside him. He insists he had everything under control, that his plan was working perfectly. Andros laughs mockingly. Out comes the pistol, and a barrage of firepower explodes on his armour. He screams, tumbles through the air, and lands painfully. He staggers, using his weapon for support, then moves to strike again. The attack goes wide. Andros delivers another blow to his chest. He makes a desperate last attempt, and thrusts out his hand._

_Micro-circuitry opens in his fingertips, and he feels Andros’s energies flowing into him. Strength returns. Injuries heal. He laughs, except the voice is not his. No, it is the enemy who laughs! He tries to pull free, but his hand is fixed in place, and more than his energy is being sapped. He watches in terror as his sleeve compresses around the decaying mass of his arm. The consumption spreads through his entire body. His legs and back grow weak. His throat locks itself tighter than a vault. Finally, his arm crumbles to dust, and he falls, breaks apart like a clay figurine. Andros rises triumphantly above him, now at an impossible size. The Spiral Sabre blazes with all the powers of hell._

_At last, the end of the Red Ranger!_

 

He awoke with a scream. The dream was already fading from his memory, but the primal sensations of panic and despair were still there. He tried to stand, but his eyes stung. Bright light bore down on him, and he raised his arms to shield himself. He could feel a weight against his chest and head, and momentarily wondered if he had been taken prisoner and left in a dungeon somewhere. He turned his head away from the light, and found himself staring into the bluest eyes he had ever seen (not that he had spent time looking into many of those, mind you). His vision began to adjust, and he recognised the face of the girl from the alleyway.

          “Hey, come on. It’s okay,” she told him in a hushed voice. “You’re all right. It’s all over now.”

          He tried to ask about a dozen questions at once, but all that came out was a stammering, _“Wha, wha,”_ sound.

          “We’re at my place,” the girl explained, shifting position so she could ease him back down. “Wasn’t easy getting you up here. Even without all that armour, you’re pretty hefty, you know that? Thank goodness you happened to rescue a registered nurse instead of, like, a ballet dancer, right?”

          Psycho Red tuned out the girl’s incessant chattering when he realised he was no longer wearing his helmet or his breastplate. He gazed down at himself, saw the exposed human skin, and felt a new surge of terror and disgust wash over him. “Where’s my armour?” he demanded, grabbing a handful of the girl’s sequin-patterned top in his fist. She frowned and rested her hands on his shoulders, pushing him down again.

          “Jeez! Chill out for a second, would you?” she said. “It’s here. I stowed it behind the couch. My sister would flip out if she saw that mess. But listen, if you’re thinking I’ll let you suit up and finish what you started with the Degeneroids, you can think again, Superman.”

          He shot her an odd expression. “Degene-wha?”

          “Local troublemakers. They’ve been trying to throw their weight around for about six months now,” she explained. A small smile crept onto her face. “Thanks for the save, by the way.”

          Red stared at her, dumbstruck. The thought had not occurred to him, but she was sort of right. He had just been looking for a fight, a way to relieve tension, but in doing so, he had saved her. Question was, how was he supposed to respond to that? That was something goody-goods did, not finely oiled engines of destruction like him. “Uh, sure, no problem,” he said. “Look, I should probably get out of your hair, I—”

          “Oh, no! You need to rest,” she informed him curtly. “You’ve still got a mild concussion and contusions, plus it looks like you’re exhausted from dehydration and hyponatremia. When was the last time you ate anything?”

          Psycho Red considered the question. Eating had never been a necessity while he was working for Astronema. His systems had been linked to the heart of Dark Spectre himself, but she was hardly going to believe that, and he had no intention of wasting time trying to explain it. He wondered why he was wasting time by not blowing the domicile to shrapnel, but a twinge of pain in his skull subdued him. “I don’t remember,” he offered with a shrug.

          The girl nodded her head. “Lie back, I’ll fix you something,” she said, then got up and crossed the short distance to the kitchenette. “After that, we really should get you over to the hospital. I’m already going to be in serious trouble for not calling an ambulance right away, but I guess I just sort of panicked. Is P.B. and J okay?”

          He grunted a yes. His eyes scanned the apartment. Plain walls, slightly suspicious brown stain in one corner of the ceiling, a mounted circular screen he assumed to be a twenty-third century television set, coffee table with a few random ornaments scattered over it, and artefacts he had no idea where to begin with. A cool breeze came in through an open door leading out onto a small balcony. The sun was already up, the sky the inky blue of early morning. He sat up again, this time more slowly, as the girl returned to him with a sandwich on a plate, and a glass filled with a green, fizzy liquid that smelled faintly of Ozone.

          “What’s this?” he asked.

          “Old Mirinite recipe. It’ll replenish your electrolytes,” she told him. “Don’t worry. It tastes pretty good, too. So, you have a name, right? I mean, I heard what you said earlier, but I need to call you something other than ‘Psycho Red,’ which is a killer _nom de guerre_ , by the way.”

          “Why do you want to know?” he asked defensively.

          “Do you want the real reason or do you just want me to stroke your ego?” she asked.

          “My ego could do with some stroking,” he murmured, only halfway joking.

          The girl batted her eyes, and cooed at him in the most sugary, bubble-headed tones she could muster. “Well, see, a bee- _yoo_ -tiful damsel in distwess should know the name of hew Pwince Chawming, then they can get mawwied and live in a big castle and have lots of childwen!”

          He glared at her. “You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”

          She grinned back at him. “What? Me, mock a dude who shows up dressed like a Kung Fu biker and who’s now trying to play the mystery man? No!” She winked and held up one hand, the thumb and forefinger spaced less than an inch apart. “Well, okay, maybe a _little_ mocking.”

          Normally, Red would have considered breaking a few ribs for making fun of him like that, but he had to admit, he liked the girl’s brazen moxie. He was used to backstabbing and brutality, so her honesty was oddly refreshing. He gingerly sipped at the drink. “Sure, I’ve got a name,” he said. She looked at him expectantly. He decided to deflect the question, stall for time until he could think up a lie to tell her. “Aren’t you supposed to give your own name before you ask someone else theirs?”

          She laughed, and it was a pleasant sound. “All right, smart guy,” she said. “I’m Ebony Sands. Now it’s your turn, and don’t tell me you’re one of those mysterious nameless joes that likes to travel around saving chicks for kicks.”

          It hit Psycho Red so hard he had to fight back the urge to cry out in triumph. “Funny you should put it that way,” he said. “Joe happens to be my name. It’s, uh, not exactly the kind you put in lights, though.”

          She sat down on the edge of the sofa. “I wouldn’t say that. I think it’s nice,” she said. “And man, is it a relief. For a second, I thought you might try and convince me it was something moody, like Raven, or Dirk, or, I don’t know, Jaden.”

          “God, no,” he muttered. “So what were you doing out alone so late?”

          “I was coming back from a friend’s place,” she said. “We had an argument. Guess I stormed off without thinking. She probably hates me right now.”

          That struck a chord deep within Psycho Red. Something in the back of his mind insisted he had acted rashly, that he should return to the laboratory and amend his mistake. He silently cursed his new, human nature. This was the kind of stupid thing lesser creatures tormented themselves with, not living weapons like himself. He had to get away before this girl’s rotten niceness caused any permanent damage. Fortunately, she chose then to excuse herself to use the bathroom. Red did not hesitate. He abandoned the plate and glass, found his missing armour behind the sofa, and raced out onto the balcony. He propelled himself off the rail, and landed running on the rooftop across the street.

          He could not begin to imagine what he had just put at risk, and what it would drive him to do.

* * *

Darby felt exhausted, both physically and mentally. He had resisted the interrogation through a combination of feigning ignorance, diverting their questions onto frivolous subjects, and plain old sarcasm, and while this had caused great frustration to his captors, he was starting to feel the strain of it. The vampires had access to techniques that tried his will, and he had an inkling of where such terrible knowledge came from. Pressed against the back wall of the room were cabinets containing rows upon rows of arcane tomes. Among them, he noticed copies of rare texts including _Naturom Demonto_ , _Liber Inducens in Evangelium Aeternum_ , _Le Bestiare des Ombres_ , and a Scholomance Prospectus. It was an absolutely evil collection, but an impressive one, nevertheless.

          Professor Havoc kept no clocks in his office, nor were there any windows, though he guessed it must be morning by now. If it was, then his hosts would all be returning to their slumber by now. He considered risking sleep, or a recuperative meditation, just for a couple of hours, when he heard the door open behind him, and three figures entered. The professor himself took a seat behind the big desk, which was carved to depict unspeakably gruesome acts of un-dead predation. Precatorius stood to his right. Darby felt the presence of the third extremely close to him, but could not turn his head to look back at them. The professor had changed out of his suit in favour of a voluminous robe and sleeping cap, though his face remained obscured behind his plague doctor’s mask.

          “Hello again, Major,” he said. “Enjoy your brief reprieve?”

          “Well, it’s always nice to have time alone with your thoughts, but you could’ve left the telly on,” he replied. “Nice pyjamas. Hope I’m not keeping you from your beauty rest.”

          “Oh! It’s no trouble at all,” said the professor. “Have you reconsidered the terms of our offer? It’s a very good deal.”

          “It is,” said Darby. “In exchange for betraying my friends, my mission, and everything I’ve worked for, I get to spend the rest of eternity as a vile aberration scared of a little sunlight. No wonder you’re known as such a skilful politician.”

          Precatorius balled his armoured hand into a fist. After the last several hours of trying to crack through the spy’s tough outer shell, the chance to deal a good backhand strike was difficult to ignore. The professor raised a hand to stop him. “Don’t give him the satisfaction, captain,” he said. “The Major has proven he is unwilling to cooperate. Bribes, threats of violence, nothing we have attempted has been enough. So, we have one course of action left to us.” He snapped his fingers, gesturing to what Darby assumed was the third vampire. “My dear.”

          Darby felt a sudden coldness on either side of his head, as lifeless fingertips pressed into his flesh. His head was tilted back, and he came face-to-face with the Lady Belladonna herself. Her glossy lips parted to reveal two rows of perfect, pointy teeth. “I’m looking forward to seeing that confident expression crumble,” she said. “I’m about to peel back the layers of your mind like an orange. It’s going to hurt a lot, so, please do scream for me. It’s good for the blood.”

          “I normally don’t believe in torture,” said Professor Havoc wearily. “It was designed by sadists who wanted to combine business with pleasure. After sufficient application, the detainee will say just about anything to make it stop. However, it’s hard to refute information directly from the subject’s thoughts.”

          “Can’t argue with that logic,” said Darby. “I mean, it’s insane, but it’s still logic, I suppose.” He felt a small burst of heat from the fingertips, smelled an electrical discharge, and then came the bottle opener in his head. There was a sensation of great yet incorporeal pressure as an alien mind pushed its way into his own. He reacted with a technique he had learned whilst travelling through the mountains of the eastern continent, which was to play blackjack in his head. Invisible claws wriggled underneath his surface thoughts, shuffling the cards, cutting open his defences. A warped, misty image took form inside his mind’s eye—the command centre sequestered inside Euclidia Laboratories, as well as its duo of artificial inhabitants.

 

 _Shuffle! The cabin of the space shuttle_ Stanton 13 _, on its voyage to the First Moon of Mirinoi. Major Darby serves as mission commander, Irena Euclidia—the real Irena—is the science officer, the pilot is an old friend of both by the name of Tobias Hawkins. Their mission entails salvage of a sensitive and potentially dangerous nature. It is undocumented, top secret, most of the High Council is not even aware of it. It is also their one and only hope for the future._

_Shuffle! Two-hundred year old ruins, reaching up from the silvery desert like the skeleton of a vast, prehistoric creature. A nightmarish conglomeration of a living creature and advanced engineering. Fetid pools of sludge pit the floor, crusted grime coats the internal mechanisms. A small box is retrieved from behind a loose panel in the wreckage of the command bridge. Inside are five translucent key cards. They glow faintly with the essence of dormant life._

_Shuffle! A monitor plays footage from the days of Terra Venture’s odyssey through the stars. A battle in the industrial district, waged between two—three?—iterations of the Power Rangers of old. He recognises the ones from Earth and Mirinoi, but the side they fight against is a distorted reflection. The latter group disappears in an explosion. Darby and Euclidia unanimously agree to delete those vid-files from the archives. A capital offence._

_Shuffle! Another monitor, this one displays a partially constructed wireframe model. It rotates, as streams of data scroll down the right hand side. The model resembles a humanoid figure, arms spread like the Vitruvian man. The head section is magnified, and a horned helm with large angular eye fills the screen. A specific sequence of information is keyed in, and the image separates into a cloud of polygons, which reconfigure into a female human face._

 

Belladonna severed the connection, and removed her fingertips from his twitching carcass.

          “The humans are mounting a defence in preparation,” she said. “That awful woman has been keeping a closer eye on us than we thought.”

          “Ha! The city’s security forces will be no match for our legions,” the professor said, with a dismissive wave. Precatorius released a low, doubtful growl. “You have something to add, Captain?” The hulking creature shook his head and took a sideways step away from his master’s scrutinising glare.

          Belladonna shook her head. “You misunderstand, my poison apple,” she said, “this one and his mistress have been working on something else. A secret weapon. They call it ‘Psycho Rangers’.”

          Precatorius started, and his eyes flashed with pale yellow light. “Psycho Rangers?” he exclaimed. “That’s impossible! It’s ridiculous! Why, it’s—” He cut himself off, and cleared his throat behind his fist as he regained his former composure. “No, it makes perfect sense. My spies have reported shuttle launches from a location far from the city, but I was never able to sneak an agent aboard. Now we know what their purpose was.”

          “I’m glad you know so much about the situation,” said the professor impatiently. “Would you care to inform the rest of us, Captain?”

          Precatorius began pacing the room in circles as he elucidated the point, and gesticulating with his hands. “While our agents were infiltrating the city and gathering information, they made copies of certain files, including some from the historical archives. Among them was footage from the colony’s security cameras.”

          “It’s a good thing they did,” said Belladonna. “Apparently our friend here decided to delete those files. These Psycho Rangers caused a great deal of destruction and panic during the crossing. Euclidia must truly be desperate if she has to resort to such unpredictable means.”

          “Will they present a problem?” asked the professor.

          “Unfortunately, that’s impossible to say,” said Precatorius. “It’s just as the lady says. The evidence clearly shows that the Psycho Rangers were dangerously unhinged, not to mention uncoordinated and far too powerful for their own good. The worst case scenario is that they choose to remain independent and cause disruptions for both us and the humans.”

          The professor slammed his palm on the desk and stood up. “But the best case scenario,” he said exuberantly, “is that some of them can be recruited to serve the cause of darkness. After all, destruction and panic sounds right up our avenue, don’t you think?”

          Belladonna glanced down at her victim, and gave his head a shake. He continued to stare, unblinkingly, up at the ceiling. “Oh, dear,” she cooed. “I must’ve broken him. Well, if he insists on trying to keep me out, that’s going to happen. What should we do with him?”

          The professor grinned in a way that filled Precatorius with disgust. “We could always do with one more rank in the file.”

          Belladonna leaned down, and sank her fangs deep into Darby’s helpless throat.

 

[END OF ACT TWO]

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the Psycho Rangers are formally introduced. I tried to keep in mind the defining aspects of each Psycho's personality, and put it through a more human lens, with their programming rendered inert. I imagine some readers might take issue with some of the implications of the chapter here, but rest assured, there's something of a bigger plan at work. Anyway, sorry I didn't have quite as much to say, aside from admitting that this one was a bit of an exposition dump. I hope it isn't too egregious.
> 
> See you next time!  
> —MajorSteed


End file.
